


Camerashipping Drabbles

by Valfreeyja (TomiGun)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Instability, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomiGun/pseuds/Valfreeyja
Summary: A few things that aren't terrible that I found while cleaning out my drive. I think they're for some kind of prompt meme, but it's gone now. The three chapters are not connected in anyway, apart from all taking place after the events of the game





	1. Precious

**Author's Note:**

> This one is sappy and almost positive. A far cry from the next two.

Waylon sighed, tapping at the keyboard to his small netbook. He had relaxed in the last few months, a year of running and looking over his shoulder behind him. He finally had some semblance of security. His own apartment helped, marginally, but not as much as the apparent demi-god that had taken to following him. He needed to make some real contact with people again, spend a night doing something other sitting and staring at a wall, or his computer screen. And getting out would let him spend a night without Miles’ dark eyes on him. 

Waylon knew he meant well, but it was creepy. Some deep part of him knew he should feel responsible for the mans condition, but knowing all he did, it was hard to not be terrified of him. The Walrider was supposed to be some horrible apocalyptic force, not some deathless asshole. It was hard to tell if his current form was an improvement, or a detraction. Still, Waylon knew he owed the man enough to let him stay. 

He leaned back in his seat, fingers pausing at the keys. He should do something for himself. Go out, to a cafe, or a bar, or something, get some real human contact. Maybe meet someone. He hadn’t thought about Lisa much lately, the subject still too sore to really dwell on, but maybe someone else would help him move on a little bit.

He found himself putting his work aside, wandering into his room. He attracted the attention of his house guest, who stood up and followed after him, keeping a watchful eye on him. Waylon looked through the meagre selection of clothes he had, thinking hard about what he should wear. It had been a very long time since he had done anything like this. 

“What are you doing?” The staticy voice of Miles made him jump, and he looked reproachfully at the taller man. He shivered, the sound always made his hair stand on end, it wasn’t something he could get used to. 

“I’m just, ah,” He thought about how to phrase it, so he didn’t sound like some stupid teenager, lying to their parent. “I’m going out. Maybe I’ll meet a few people.” Shrugging, he tried to pass it off as nonchalant. The dark eyes on him narrowed for a moment, then went blank, Miles’ face going hard and unreadable. 

“What kind of people are you trying to meet Waylon?” His voice was quiet, the static in it a low but clear threat. Waylon blinked, not really sure what he had done to earn the ire of the other man so quickly. 

“Just.. I don’t.. Uh,” Waylon stuttered, panic freezing his tongue. Miles took a step closer to him, and Waylon hastily retreated. He had broken into a cold sweat, and his hands were shaking. The taller man continued his advance, slow and filled with purpose, and Waylon had run out of space to run. He shook, certain that his death was finally catching up with him, now that he had found some kind of will to live again. Clenching his eyes closed tight, he waited, knowing that the last blow wasn’t far off. Instead, he felt a surprisingly gentle hand on his chin. 

Shocked, his eyes shot open, and he looked up at Miles. His expression was surprisingly soft, even shrouded in the Walriders darkness. His touch tickled, static not unlike the screen of an old TV tickling along Waylon’s jaw. Miles leaned close, and pressed his lips under Waylon’s ear, his lips warm and buzzing. His hand slid along Waylon’s jaw until he was cupping the back of the shorter man’s neck, keeping him close. Waylon shivered, it had been a long time since anyone had touched him like this, since he had even thought about something like this. And here it was, coming from the most unexpected source. He hissed suddenly, surprised by the heat of Miles mouth opening, his teeth and lips forming a hard seal on Waylon’s neck. The noise of pain quickly turned into a quiet groan, when he started sucking hard. Waylon clapped a hand over his mouth, going red. Miles pulled away, short breathy laughter like a broken radio hissing into Waylon’s ear. 

“You don’t need to meet anyone else.” He whispered quietly, the static in his voice almost as bad as the static from his proximity. Waylon’s vision had started to swim with ghost images of the engine, and he closed his eyes tight, trying to block it out, focus on the moment. Miles kissed his neck again, making it easier to lose himself in the sensation. His free hand came up, grabbing at the shreds of cloth and static that clothed the other man. Egged on, Miles kissed his neck harder, sucking here and there, never lingering in the same place too long. Waylon had to grab onto the man with both hands just to keep his balance, he had gone weak in the knees. He was almost ashamed of how hard he had become, but it was so much easier to focus on the heat of Miles’ mouth, and the dull throb of the bruises that now littered his neck. He had very quickly lost himself. Miles was smirking, the smug expression making his eyes crinkle happily. 

“Wh-What...?” Waylon gasped out, his chest heaving. He couldn’t make his mouth work, even if he did somehow manage to string the words together in his head. 

“You don’t need to go out and meet other people.” Miles explained, his tone patient, the static now a soothing background to his words. “I can’t follow you out, I can’t watch you.” His expression turned serious. “You are... Precious to me, for reasons I can’t explain.” He nodded, more to himself than to Waylon. “And if there any... Other things, you need taken care of, I would be happy to help.” He smirked again, and Waylon groaned, not sure if he should be exasperated or flattered.


	2. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for attempted suicide, as well as everything that comes along with it

Waylon kept the lights off as he passed through the door into his room. His hands were shaking, a nervous tremor that hadn’t stopped in months. He sighed, and sat heavily on the bed, absentmindedly picking at the covers. This place was no different from the dozens of other places he had called home for a night, thanks to the video from the asylum. He knew he had made the right decision, exposing Murkoff’s atrocities to the world, but it was didn’t feel like, it hadn’t felt like the right decision for months. Running from everything he had had, watching his back, and for what? Some godawful sign that he hadn’t actually changed anything? Chastising himself mentally, he had to remember, thoughts like that didn’t do anything. Didn’t help him. Breathing deeply, he cleared his mind, and thought about how it would all be over soon anyway. He leaned over, reaching into the duffel bag he had with him. It didn’t hold much, a few items of clothing, some faded pictures, all of which he shoved to the side to get at a small cardboard box. The cardboard was worn, any ink that had been on it was long faded, but the small blade replacements inside still shone wickedly, twisting the low light into a dull threat. Fingers trembling, he slid one of the small blades from the box, then placed the rest on the bed beside him. 

He closed his eyes, and held the small blade to his wrist. He pressed it against his skin hard, then took a deep breath and pulled it away. He shouldn’t do this on the bed. No one deserves to walk in and see that right away, not to mention the mess he would cause. The bathroom; he would sit in the tub and do it, let it all run down the drain. He flinched, almost involuntarily, at the eerily familiar phrase. It was hard to block out the memories of Mount Massive, they flowed into the forefront of his thoughts slowly, jarring him out of everyday things. It was hellish, trying to live in the aftermath of that place. Soon, it won’t be a problem soon; it was a mantra he repeated as he walked to the bathroom, desperately trying to calming himself down. He had to stay strong for what he was going to do. As he came closer to the bathroom door, he was struck by the uneasy feeling of being watched. He groaned when he reached the door, leaning heavily on it for support. 

A numbing kind of static filling his head, barely remembered images flashing in front of his eyes. Gripping the little blade tighter, he opened the door, his eyes wide open, ready to flee at the slightest sign of an intruder. The door creaked as it opened, and he hesitantly reached in to flick the light switch on, illuminating, nothing. The dingy bathroom was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived. A hand descended on his shoulder, and Waylon went cold. He froze, waiting for the knife to be plunged into his gut, or something worse, god forbid, but nothing came. Slowly, he turned to face the intruder. Cold panic overtook him, this was the only other thing to have crawled out of the asylum. A man, a good foot taller than him, not that that meant much, had grabbed onto him. His skin swirled with a darkness, like storms roiling just beneath the surface, making his shape blurry. His eyes were deep pits of black, with piercing brown irises. Waylon swallowed. Whatever this person was now, some new God on earth, or a madman with limitless powers, it didn’t matter much. Judging by the look on its face, Waylon wasn’t long for this world. 

“Park,” He growled, his voice like static and screaming, but still somehow calm, almost whisper quiet. A black ooze streamed out of his mouth when he opened it, flowing up like smoke and making his face all the fuzzier. “What in the fuck do you think you’re going to do in there?” The mans voice rose, with a scream of static accompanying it. Waylon fliched hard, dislodging the hand on his shoulder and sinking down to hug his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. “You’re supposed to keep living.” The man kneeled, his voice soft again, but no less terrifying now that he was panicked. “So at least one of us made it out of that fuck hole.”   
Waylon looked up, confused. 

“I... Who...?” Realisation struck him suddenly. “You’re the reporter?” The man, Miles, Waylon remembered, his name is Miles, just cocked his head in response. 

“Give me the razor, Park.” He commanded, holding his hand out for it. Waylon flinched back, holding it close to his chest.“I can’t do that.” He was shaking his head, eyes closed so he didn’t have to look at the anger that flashed across the man’s face. “I can’t live like this anymore. I have to end it.” 

There was a moment of silence between them, something close to understanding, then the other man spoke. “End it then.” The storm behind his voice had calmed, and Waylon looked up. The man had pulled his hand back, and was now sitting crosslegged on the floor, watching him. He straightened, and held the razor tight between his fingers. His hands were shaking again, worse than usual. Tears were welling in his eyes, and he held the blade against his wrist. He glanced up, meeting the impassive eyes of the man watching him. He gulped, and threw the razor at him suddenly. Miles caught it easily, and looked on curiously as Waylon devolved into tears. 

“I... Can’t.” He sobbed, relief and panic flooding his mind. “But... I can’t do this anymore.” He couldn’t live like he had been any longer, the terror, the constant looking over his shoulder, the crushing loneliness. “This was my way out.” He hugged his knees, the picture of absolute misery. Miles reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“You don’t get to get out so easily. Its a fight, and not a pretty one Park.”


	3. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is incomplete, and is going to remain that way, but I like it enough that I'm posting it anyway
> 
> Set in some kind of post asylum roadtrip AU, I don't know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only one I wrote more from Miles' POV, so it's a bit weirder?

It was coming up on midnight when they finally pulled into their next hotel. Miles and Waylon were both exhausted after the full day of driving. Waylon grabbed their room key and led them to the ground floor room, opening it slowly, like some unknown danger could be lurking just behind it. It was mostly habit at this point, and one they had shared, but tonight the slow creaking of the door ground on Miles' nerves, making him twitch. Waylon felt, more than actually saw his annoyance, and hurried up, despite his instincts. The door opened into a dim room, with a single bed and TV, a tiny table near the closet, a single end table that probably had some vandalized copy of the bible, and another door that presumably led to the bathroom. Nothing too fancy. Waylon stepped in first, dropping his bag beside the bed and flopping on it. Miles slunk in far more cautiously, his nerves frayed more than they should be at this point. He didn't understand it, nothing had happened, but warning bells were going off inside his head. He closed and locked the door behind him, triple checking the deadbolt. Then, he silently paced around the small perimeter of the room, opening the bathroom door to take a look inside before making a small satisfied noise and sitting beside Waylon. 

Waylon was still, his eyes closed. Miles was momentarily worried, but tried to rationalise it. He was tired from the long drive. They'd made good time today, this was just the cost. Miles himself calmed down, but there was still the warning buzz in the back of his head, an almost overwhelming need to ensure the other mans well being. He'd already gambled with his life too much, and it wasn't even a thing that belonged to him. Hesitantly, he reached out to put his hand on Waylon's shoulder. Small wisps of black were curled around the tips of his fingers, enough to shock Waylon, judging by how he jumped. Miles pulled his hand away immediately. He mouthed an apology, but all that leaked out of his mouth was the soft hiss of static. Waylon looked up, worry creasing his brow. 

"Miles, are you okay? You don't look so good." He was so nice, so genuinely worried. Miles didn't understand it. He didn't pull away though, when Waylon reached up and put his hand on his cheek. He leaned into it slightly, appreciative of the slim fingers on his face. Waylon rubbed his thumb over his cheek, smiling fondly. This was uncharted territory for them. They weren't usually so, affectionate, not outright like this. Miles wasn't used to the kinder touches Waylon sometimes gave him. He tried hard to not dwell on it, not now, when it was so nice, but the more he tried to push it from his mind the more intrusive it became. He didn't deserve this, he was too damaged, too cynical for love. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he was human enough for it anymore. 

Waylon smiled at him, nervous and gentle. Miles took a deep breath, shakier than he meant. He couldn't control it. It was strange for him, he was a god, he had all the power of the universe, and he was nervous about not knowing where he was. It was ridiculous. He closed his eyes tight, and visualized the layout of the room in his head, made sure he knew all the entrances and exits. Made sure he remembered locking the door. It had been a very long time since anyone had come after them, and longer still since it had been anyone who was a threat, but the moment he dropped his guard it would happen. His breath hitched when he thought about it, panic swirling deep in his gut. He could feel his heart pounding, could count the beats as the slammed against every part of his body. Waylon's hand, where it had been a small comfort, was now dangerous, a distraction, a risk. Not one he was willing to take, not one he could force himself to take. He jerked away, ignored the little noise of surprise Waylon made. Pressed his own hand over his mouth. His breathing had gotten louder, he hadn't even noticed. Louder and harder, he was panting like he had just ran a mile.His hands began to shake, and thats when he started to hear it. That telltale buzz that started behind his teeth, reverberated in his skull until it was filled with it. He whined softly, pulled his knees up and breathed hard, trying to regulate. Trying so hard to calm down. He felt Waylon’s hands on him again, smoothing down his shoulders and neck. It was a warm point, something solid to focus on, and Miles was thankful for it. It helped him force the buzzing out of his head, pull back to the real world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sure do like commas

**Author's Note:**

> This is also my least favourite


End file.
